


an inevitable occurence

by sadie18



Series: a study in pining [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 09:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20562296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadie18/pseuds/sadie18
Summary: marcus and oliver through the yearsa study in unwilling attraction





	an inevitable occurence

Marcus flies like he has a death wish.

Oliver notices this in the first minute of his first quidditch game for Gryffindor, from his viewpoint in the sky, hovering in front of the three hoops that meant so much to him. 

Marcus is a dangerous flier, twisting and turning without his hands on the stick, hanging by his legs when he dashes around the pitch upside down. It's enough to make Oliver anxious, anticipating the exact moment something, _anything, _goes wrong, and Marcus Flint will tumble to the ground into a heap of broken bones and blood. 

The moment never comes. 

Marcus has a nasty grin when he scores on Oliver, distracted.

* * *

The crack of fracturing Marcus Flint's nose feels inevitable. 

So does the black eye he gets in return. 

They're thirteen years old when Pomfrey reserves two beds in the hospital for them, putting them side by side as her form of punishment. 

* * *

Oliver and Marcus are made captains in fifth year, successfully pissing the both of them off that they're _still _on equal footing, all the time. 

Marcus still flies like he believes death is just a funnily-constructed joke, still spins in circles around Oliver while he flashes ugly teeth and narrowed eyes at him, and Oliver shouldn't be giving him the satisfaction of something as common as his _attention, _but Marcus gets it anyways, because Oliver almost stops breathing when the boy slips off his broom on a rainy day and catches himself by a _hand. _

* * *

Marcus thought it funny to bump his shoulder into Oliver's in the corridor one day in the middle of the semester.

The most they'll have in common is quidditch and their simultaneous eyeroll at _another _of Madam Pomfrey's lectures. 

In the corner of Oliver's eye, he watched Marcus lean his head back into folded arms, lowering his eyelids and huffing deeply as Madam Pomfrey raises her voice even higher.

* * *

Oliver blocks a shot from Marcus with the back of his broom, sticking up a choice finger at Marcus' choice cuss. 

He hears Lee Jordan make a comment about it, the Slytherins and Gryffindors in the stands booing each other crankily, fuelled by the their captains' exchanged. 

Oliver scowls, knowing McGonagall's coming rant about being an _influential _figure in the school, and should act as such. 

He just wants to play quidditch. 

* * *

Oliver and Marcus have fought many times in the locker rooms. Why not? It's quiet, once everyone clears out, and professors aren't allowed in there unless dire circumstances. 

The two of them, who fight on a weekly basis, do not classify as a dire circumstance. 

The lockers were cold and sharp when Oliver's bare back was slammed into them, and he hissed through his teeth before grabbing Marcus by the neck and twisting them around so Marcus was against the metal. 

Marcus groaned angrily, and Oliver smirked, until he was thrown onto the frosty, slippery tiles of the floor, letting out a shout when his head collided painfully with the ceramic. 

"_Fuck you." _Oliver seethes, throwing a punch that Marcus _caught. _Marcus let out a low snort, his hand missing Oliver's face and slamming into the floor instead. Oliver was pinned to the ground, his neck flailing about as to avoid the bigger boy's blow after blow. 

"You _wish._" Marcus gritted his teeth as Oliver kneed him in the thigh, wincing as Oliver repeats the motion, over and over.

Oliver stills, at that, waiting for a visceral feeling of _disgust _at the thought of ever wishing for something as grotesque as _that- _he and Marcus were sworn rivals, from the moment Marcus scored his first goal in his quidditch career, and Oliver let in his first goal of _his_ quidditch career. 

The feeling never came, just like the moment Marcus fell off his broom never came, all those years ago. 

Marcus takes Oliver's distraction and grabs him roughly by the hair, and Oliver pushes it all to the side, throwing up an elbow.

* * *

Something changes in Oliver. 

Madam Pomfrey apparently asks after the two of them, wondering why they've broken their infamous hospital streak. 

Marcus doesn't smile at him, cruelly or not, anymore. 

* * *

Oliver is silent in the captain's office, drawing sketches and plays, late at night at the end of sixth year, when Marcus slams through the door.

He sighs, not in the mood for a fight, too tired to be angry. He's worked like a dog, at his academics, on his broom, and it's the cusp of summer. The air is sticky with the exhausted atmosphere, everyone just waiting for the last days of school to tick slowly by. 

Marcus locks the door behind him, and Oliver doesn't have a say in the matter. He never has.

Marcus doesn't say anything, just neatly tucking his hands under his armpits after crossing his arms, his brow furrowed as he scanned Oliver up and down, then looking at the state of the room. There are drawings and books scattered everywhere, in Oliver's portion of the office, and he's pretty sure theres an ink smudge on his cheek and a broken mug in Cedric's part of the room. 

"You're insane." Marcus just says, staring almost wondrously at the mess. Oliver frowns, not looking back up from his sketches, no matter how much he wants to. 

"Not like you're any better." He mumbles back, gesturing his hand towards the desk for the Slytherin captain. It's just as cluttered, if not more, by books the four captains argue over regularly, with open playbooks and a quaffle sitting on the floor. 

"It's midnight." 

"Why are you here?" 

"Why do you do this?" Marcus shoots back easily, expecting this conversation, and Oliver finally tears his gaze away from his papers and gives Marcus a pointed look, hoping his loose sweater hid his heavy breathing and the flush creeping up his neck. 

After seconds that feel like minutes, Oliver doesn't answer. Instead, he says, "what do you want?" 

It's a loaded question. They both know it, too.

"You don't hit me anymore." Marcus says almost conversationally, keeping his stare level, and it's in the instance that Oliver remembers what house Marcus is in. Not when he's wearing his green robes that billow in the wind on the pitch, not when he laughs with his friends at the Slytherin table, not when he makes a nasty remark about Gryffindor in the halls. 

It's now, when he's trying to poke at Oliver without his fists, probing him without being crude. It's subtle, _very _subtle, and Oliver only catches it because he's always been careful, when it came to Marcus. 

"And?" Oliver hums back, tapping his fingers on the hard cover of his textbooks. 

Marcus leans against the locked door, the only hint of his discomfort being in his jaw, that twitches with tension. "Quite sudden, is all. What, are you sick, or something?" 

Oliver lets out a scoff. "You _wish._" 

Just like that, Marcus' face changes, a million emotions flashing across his face in speeds too fast for Oliver to name. 

Those two words reminded Oliver of the locker room, of the adrenaline rush, bloody noses and things he couldn't have. Different contexts, same concept.

Marcus unlocked the door and left Oliver alone. 

* * *

The anticipation for the first game of seventh year made Oliver smile. The air tasted sweet on his tongue, the sun hidden ever-so-slightly by the clouds, and the winds were cool, but not harsh. It was perfect flying conditions, for a perfect match, and almost nothing could dampen Oliver's mood. 

_Almost. _

Marcus walked up to the middle of the pitch with him, his face neutral as Hooch told them to shake hands. It felt inherently _wrong, _that Marcus' handshake settled for firm and not bone-crushing. 

Oliver shared a glance with him, brown eyes into one grey, one green, before kicking off.

The first game of seventh year didn't make him smile anymore. 

* * *

Oliver cornered Marcus in the locker rooms in March, one morning after a Slytherin training. 

It wasn't necessarily _planned. _Oliver's mind was wandering, and his legs worked automatically, until he was inside, the room cleared of everyone but his rival captain, who sat in his boxers, untaping his knuckles and wrists. 

(_He used to tape his hands to hit _you, his mind unhelpfully supplies. _He's not _your _rival captain_)

"Why are you here?" Marcus mumbled softly, sounding like a stranger, his eyes set firmly on un-looping the wrap on his hands. Once, twice, three times, hypnotically. 

"Dunno." Oliver said, surprisingly honest, and Marcus looks up at him. 

"I'm not fighting you now." Marcus grunted, moving onto his left hand, biting at the tape and tearing it with his teeth. 

"We don't fight anymore, remember?"

Oliver was uncertain as to why he was the locker room, alone with Marcus Flint, because it surely can't end well. He could leave embarrassed, on his way to the hospital, or both. 

Marcus huffed. "Why, you want to?" 

"No!" Oliver blurted, too quickly, and Marcus raised an eyebrow. "_No_."

"Neither." Marcus shrugged on his white shirt, the sleeve straining around his biceps as he buttoned it up. "I think I know what you want."

"Is that so?" Oliver muttered, just to be contrary, as his heart began to race at the sheer _thought _of Marcus _knowing. _

Marcus began to tie his tie, fingers moving nimbly with the knot, and Oliver gulped 

"Yes." He said simply, shrugging on his pants, doing up his belt. His hair was still damp from the showers, dripping on to his shoulders and chest, making the fabric stick. He got up, standing in front of Oliver. 

"_Oh?_" Oliver breathed, forcing his eyes away from Marcus, looking at the garish orange shower curtains, focusing on the scent of grass and sweat instead of the sandalwood and lemon from the other boy. 

Marcus stepped closer. 

It was inevitable, he supposes, closing his eyes when their mouths slot into place.


End file.
